


find nothing but loneliness

by pentipus



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: M/M, Regrets, Sadness, The Scorch, sleeping together in the sand, thomas loves newt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 21:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6211336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentipus/pseuds/pentipus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness.”</p><p>- Sylvia Plath</p>
            </blockquote>





	find nothing but loneliness

For some too many years in the cold had turned them hard, too many years desperate and alone had shut them off. Thomas curled his body against the elements between Newt and Minho and wished to be soft, to be open. They slept together every night out in The Scorch, huddled like a pack of dogs. The hunger weighed them down and sleep came easy.

Thomas woke one night and felt the sure weight of Newt against his chest and thighs. He curled into him, a minute movement that saw Newt pushing back, the faintest press of a body against his own. Thomas listened to his breathing and went back to sleep.

The second time it happened Thomas woke up hard; he’d been dreaming about The Maze, and the adrenaline had betrayed him. He stayed still, wondering if Newt would notice. He breathed slow and inched away, but Newt rolled back, the small of his back brushing against Thomas’s hard cock. He breathed out, frozen, and did not move again.

In the morning they walked across the desert and at night they slept again.

Sometimes Frypan would speak in his sleep. Sometimes he would speak about The Maze, about The Glade. Sometimes he would utter the word ‘mommy’ even though it meant nothing to any of them.

At night Thomas tried to gravitate towards Newt as naturally as possible, avoiding the stammered mutterings of Frypan in the darkness. Sometimes Minho would throw an arm across his waist, quieting him, breathing hot air against Frypan’s cheek.

They walked through a blizzard of sand, the grit in their eyes and in their noses, crunched between their aching teeth. Going to the toilet hurt and they all suffered in the heat.

One day, not long before the end, Newt stumbled over the edge of an outcropping of rock, a remnant of the world before, poking up through the sand like a broken tooth. He threw out his arms to catch himself and the sharp rock tore through his sleeve and into his skin, leaving a wet red smudge across the dark stone. He tumbled backwards and knocked himself out; Thomas found him prostrate and silent and assumed he was dead.

“Newt!” Thomas slid down the dune at the side of the rock, slogging over to Newt’s side through the sand. “Fuck.” He rolled him over when he reached him and brushed the grit from his face, pushing his fingers into Newt’s dry hair while feeling for a pulse in his pale throat.

“Thomas?” Minho skidded to a stop on top of the outcropping of rock above him, looking down at them with his fists clenched.

“It’s alright,” Thomas called. “It’s ok, he’s knocked himself out.”

Thomas heard Minho’s pained sigh and looked away as Minho turned to shout out to the others, “He’s ok, guys, he’s fine. Thomas has him.”

That night Thomas pressed against Newt without apology. He clasped his hands in the space between his chest and Newt’s back and pressed every other part of himself against him. He tucked his face in against the back of Newt’s neck and let his hot breath warm Newt’s white skin. Thomas felt that Newt was awake, although there was no way of really knowing, he slept as silent as the dead.

He loved Newt as he loved the others, a monumental and desperate adoration. He loved him as he would a brother, but Thomas was lonesome, he was cold, and he wanted just as much as he loved.

He rocked his hips against Newt’s ass, a movement that he could pass off as accidental if he hadn’t done it again, testing the waters. In the darkness Newt pressed back, an unmistakable reply. Thomas opened his mouth against the back of Newt’s neck and pushed his nose into his hair, hyperaware of every tiny rustle of his dirty clothing as he moved.

Newt shifted, a warm shadow against him, turning over in the sand so that they were face-to-face. Thomas had expected a warning, or perhaps some words of wisdom; a polite rebuke that they would never speak of again. But instead Newt pressed his hands against Thomas’s cheeks, his thumbs cold against Thomas’s temples, and said nothing. Thomas turned into the touch, his cheek pillowed against Newt’s palm, and breathed slow.

For a moment he wished they had never come to The Scorch, that they had never left The Glade, that he had left well alone like Gally had said. He wondered what it might have been like if they had been together like this in the Homestead, warm against one another in the peaceful night. He imagined them pressed together in the Deadheads, their breathing loud among the gravestones. Here they were silent, the steady in and out of their breaths nothing more than the faintest shudder of air. They were a drop of water in the endless desert, a single shining star in the echoing darkness of the night; noiseless and alone.


End file.
